


The Sick Note

by Rubynye



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Nonmonogamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confined to bed, Pippin writes Merry a letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sick Note

**Author's Note:**

> Roopie is, of course, the creation of [](http://baylorsr.livejournal.com/profile)[**baylorsr**](http://baylorsr.livejournal.com/). This was written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/hobbit_smut/profile)[**hobbit_smut**](http://community.livejournal.com/hobbit_smut/) Hold Me, Heal Me Challenge.

Title: The Sick Note  
Rating: Hard R  
Pairing: Merry/Pippin   
Other pairings: Pippin/Pippin; Frodo/Sam; other hobbit assortments discussed.  
Warning: Overuse of italics.

 

On a bright Saturday morning in early summer, Merry Brandybuck received a letter from his very favorite cousin, Pippin Took. Drawing several rather crumpled sheets from the envelope, and noting that the letter was written in three different colors of ink, he settled into a chair and began to read.

_Dearest Merry,_

I hate you.

Don't worry, I still love you, I always will. But I also hate you, because it's nearly brambleberry time, and you're at Brandy Hall and I'm here confined to bed and I MISS you.

I'm not even all that ill! I caught a cold which turned to a rattly cough, and Mam sent me to my bed and she won't let me up. The healer wouldn't talk in front of me, but I KNOW I'm fine. I don't even feel ill. Pearl is guarding me like a goblin's prisoner, making sure I stay in bed and no one sees me, and they have only the ugly old servants tending me, not even ones I know, and Pim and Vinca are off chasing and catching and I am so BORED and I MISS YOU.

Mam said that if I'm bored I might read, but I've read all the books I can stand; my eyes are crossing. So she gave me parchment and quills and ink and said I should write letters. My hope is that I can write this letter to you till I'm well again. I'd rather write you than my aunts, at any rate.

I looked out my window to the west. It's so bright and fresh and green, and I imagined I could look all the way to Buckland, to you. I miss you, Merry.

I'm so proddy. I have to keep a pillow on my lap whenever Mam or Pearl come to check on me; knowing Pearl, she'd whack it with a hairbrush. My prick must be bored all on its own; it's tired of my hand. It wants yours, Merry. Your hands are wider than mine, and square, they feel different than mine when you wrap them round it. Besides, when you do, you kiss me, pushing me back against the grass or a tree or a wall or a pillow, pushing your hot wet tongue into my mouth for me to suck on, pushing your chest against mine so I can feel your heart pounding. And I can put my hands on your shoulders, in your hair, round your waist, holding your cheeks, any of the four of them. I could even wrap them round your cock and feel it twitch, feel the way the skin slides with my hand, feel the way the head gets all hot and damp-sticky. Maybe I'd even

(here, the ink color changes)

_I got all excited writing that, and had to stop for a bit and toss myself off. I knocked over the inkwell, and had to clean up in a frightful hurry and tuck the letter away. If Mam saw it I don't think she'd let me send it. No, she's not worrying anymore that I'm too young for us to be playing tweens, but I don't think she'd think it gentlehobbity to write a letter about it. Besides, I just don't want her to see it. This letter's not for her, it's for you._

At any rate, I started three lines of a letter to your Mam and Da, before going back to this one. I don't want you to think I miss you just for tumbling. You're my Merry and I loved you even back when I thought tumbling was a funny odd thing for tweens and grown folk to spend their time at. This grey ink is very nearly the colour your eyes are at night, and I miss them. I miss them in the day, too, bluey-grey and sparkly. I miss your nose like a lopsided strawberry. I miss your hair like patterned amber. I miss your wide shoulders and strong arms and square hands, even when you grab me with them.

I'd best stop. If I keep writing a list of bits of you I miss, I'll end up taking myself in hand again, and it'll be elevenses soon and I don't want to be caught at it. Besides, I miss other things about you than your bits. I miss playing roopie with you; you're a great stick. I miss picnics out in the open riverbank woods. I miss parlor games and chasing and catching together. I miss lying with my head in your lap while we read books. I miss your head in my lap when...

I must admit it, I do miss you because I'm proddy, even if not just because. I miss how it feels when you suck me. It feels different, you know, than anyone else. There's a thing you do with your mouth, I can think of how it feels even now but I don't have words for it, but even if I were tied up and blindfolded I would know your mouth on me. Just like you feel different in my mouth from anyone else, and your pulse has a different beat, and you taste different and smell different too. Better. My favorite ever, but then you're my Merry.

Frodo surely must know words for these things, if only in Elvish. I must ask him next time I visit. I meant to tell you, I caught them at it! Early one morning before they would have thought I was up, I heard them in the kitchen, cooing like those little bright cage birds. I crept down the hallway---I'll have you know I can_ be silent if I choose---and peered around the corner and there Sam was, caught up against the counter with Frodo on his knees before him. For all that he's our older cousin, I really must say that he looks nothing so much as pretty with his mouth full like that. But then he hardly looks older than you do. _

So Sam was gripping the counter behind himself with both hands, moaning so soft I could hardly hear him, and Frodo was working with his hand what he couldn't fit in his mouth, and it was such a sight I forgot to be hungry. But I didn't dare breathe, lest they hear me; who knows what colour of red Sam would turn if he knew I saw? Or what Frodo would do to me? So you will be proud of your stealthy Pippin, because I watched as Frodo bobbed his head and the way he worked his jaw and the way his tongue wiggled out on the underside, and the way Sam arched back over the counter and groaned, "Mr. Frodo," leaning further and further back, as if Frodo were sucking all the stiffness out of his spine. Did Sam call you "Mr. Merry" when you two played tweens together? I can't imagine hearing that in bed. I watched all that, and I didn't touch myself, and I didn't make a sound.

Sam was very loud when he finally peaked. I think he saved up all the noise for then. Frodo laughed, and gave him a smacking kiss on his belly, and I likely could have beat a drum then and they wouldn't have heard me. I was very nice, and let Frodo kiss his way up to Sam's mouth, and I hit the wall and said "ow!" as if I'd tripped, so they knew I was coming and could arrange themselves. Even so, Sam was red as a tomato when I went into the kitchen.

I had to stay in my chair through all of second breakfast; I kept thinking of what I'd seen, and imagining catching you against a counter, and nightshirts don't hide anything_._

(the ink color changes again)

_I didn't knock over the inkwell this time. After writing the last page I tossed off anyway, and took a little nap after; someone came and straightened up, and took the inkwell away, so I had to ask for another one. At least they didn't see the letter, because I put it under your pillow. I wish you were here with me, or I were in Buckland with you, or Bag End. Mostly Buckland. I'm a bit cross with Frodo; that day I saw him and Sam in the kitchen, he looked at me all through breakfast, and he said I looked flushed, and when I began coughing the next day he said he knew I was sick, and he wrote Mam and Da, and Mam came to fetch me and put me to bed as soon as we were home. I wasn't even sick! But I couldn't say why I was so flushed, of course. He should know I turn all pink and warm when I'm roused, he's seen me so not a few times by now. But then, I suppose, if he had figured it out he'd have known why I was roused, and I would rather face all the orcs of Uncle Bilbo's tales than Frodo Baggins in his wrath. _

He should just ask me to bed with them. That would have fixed everything.

You should tell me how to get Sam to ask me to bed with them. Stop laughing! I know you're laughing at that. Stop it!

I'm proddy again. I wouldn't mind being at Bag End with Frodo, with his knowing blue eyes and his fine strong hands and how rousingly bossy he is. You learned your bossiness from him, didn't you? I'd pick him over nearly any hobbit I could have, and I could have not a few, if Mam and Pearl would let me out of this room. But I wouldn't pick anyone, even Frodo, over you.

I stopped describing bits of you I miss, didn't I? Let me begin again. I miss your solid wide chest, and the sturdy tummy you're filling out with. I can just imagine wrapping my arms around you there, my hands on your back and my cheek over your navel. I miss that little line of fur that grows down from your navel to your prick; I remember how it tickles to run my nose along it. I miss your prick, but you doubtless guessed that.

I wish you were here to tup me right through the bed. We haven't done that in far too long, and I can picture it so well I can taste it. My arms around your neck and my legs over your shoulders and you up over me, that little line of fur rubbing along the underside of my prick and my eggs as you push inside me, your mouth on mine and your tongue in my mouth and your ear in my hand, wouldn't that be lovely? The way you'd feel within me, hot and heavy and sparking up my spine; I never knew there was a space in me, till you filled it. I would drum my heels on your back, and tell you "yes, just like that" and even though our mouths were mashed together you would hear me and keep on with it. You would pull your head back, and I would nearly push it down again but I would realize and open my eyes, and yours would be dark like a warm rainy night above me. Don't look at anyone else that way, Merry. You can tup anyone you like, as long as they're not a jealous sort, but that look belongs to me. You would say, "now, my Pip, now," and I would peak, feeling you within me and atop me and all over me, surrounded by you. And feeling that would bring you off so hard you'd shout.

That_ will get you on your pony and over to see me, I'm sure. On second thought, you had better not. Mam and Pearl might not let you in if you arrive looking as if you'll exercise me._

I miss your legs and knees and feet, too. I thought I shouldn't leave them out.

(Here the previous ink color resumes.)

_Merry my Merry, writing this letter has made me feel so much better. After tossing off three times yesterday I slept for half the day, and I feel very much improved now. You're good for me, even from so far away. Hopefully Mam will see how well I am and let me up to go see you. _

Love,

Your very own  
Peregrin Pippin Took

Smiling, Merry folded the letter carefully, and looked over the top of it at its author, who had personally delivered it before draping himself across the next chair and intently watching him read. Seeing that Merry was finished, Pippin grinned brightly and folded his arms. "Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?" asked Merry, tapping the letter against his bottom lip. Pippin bridled, as well as someone could who lay diagonally across both arms and the seat of a chair. "Well, what do you think of your letter?"

"Hmmm." Merry pushed himself out of his chair to stroll over to Pippin's, watching Pippin look up at him with wide uncertain eyes, chest rising and falling more and more quickly; the collar of Pippin's shirt lay unfurled, framing the freckled hollow of his throat. "I think," Merry drawled, leaning over, as Pippin's grin flared again, "that I liked it very much."

Pippin threw his arms round Merry's neck for reply, and kissed him so soundly he went to his knees, bracing himself with one hand as he wound the other round Pippin's waist. "Let's go and do everything I wrote about!" Pippin suggested, squirming himself onto Merry's lap. Merry sat back on the floor, carefully pressing his hand to Pippin's back; he smiled when he felt Pippin breathe with no rattle or hitch, and grinned when Pippin impatiently wriggled against him. "I had no idea you're so fond of roopie, Pip," Merry said, tilting his smile to a smirk, tilting his face so it brushed Pippin's arm. "Or would you rather a picnic?"

Pippin's reply, underscored with a little growl, was so clear as to need no words.


End file.
